


(it isn’t the storm that makes the ocean dangerous)

by Mikkal



Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Comic mixed with movies mixed with fandom, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Slight Violence, Slight swearing, friendships, people being badass, wonky chronological order
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-21
Updated: 2015-04-21
Packaged: 2018-03-25 02:16:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3792844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mikkal/pseuds/Mikkal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p> </p>
  <p>    <i>It’s 1942, Captain America looks just like he does in his posters, and Peggy Carter hates him already.</i><br/>  </p>
</blockquote>When Steve Rogers goes through Project Rebirth, he doesn't become a chorus girl after. Instead, he gets pulled into a world where the public doesn't know his name, he's a spy before he's a solider, and everything just seems to like not going his way.
            </blockquote>





	(it isn’t the storm that makes the ocean dangerous)

_“The terrible things that happened to you_

_didn’t make you_ you _._

_You always_ were _.”_

_—a softer world: 911_

**i.**

The extent of Zola’s experiments on Sergeant Barnes is unknown but the results are nonetheless impressive. Howard leans back in his seat, adjusting his sunglasses so the sun’s glare stops interfering with his view of the training grounds where Rogers and Barnes are putting on quite the show.

            Rogers has a weird way of fighting—squaring his shoulders and puffing up his chest before throwing a punch lightning fast. He fights like he wants to be a boxer, but also like he’s too weak to make the punch hurt. Understandable, considering how he was like, but now the urge to make every weak punch count causes shattered faces and collapsed skulls.

            Barnes, on the other hand, is pragmatic. He’s slick, dodging punches when his friend goes in headfirst. He tires out his opponent until he sees an opening to whirl around and jab in just the right place. He moves like Agent Carter, looking for weak spots and crippling with finesse, not brute force.

            They’re both fast—faster than should be possible for men their size. Howard feels breathless just looking at them; he can’t imagine what it’s like actually fighting. Except, when Barnes goes for Roger’s neck with a knife that’s appeared out of no where, and Rogers grabs him by _his_ neck in a choke-hold that would crush his windpipe, neither of them are too out of breath to call a draw—hell, they’re barely panting.

            The rest of the Howling Commandos clap and cheer, loud like the military men they are who always have to be silent like a faint breeze when they’re on a mission. Peggy sits next to him, back in an unbending line and shoulders straight as an arrow, but there’s a soft smile on her face. A much different expression than when she and the good Captain first met.

            There are a few soldiers around who aren’t part of the Howling Commandos, nor are they really part of the SSR. But the funding for aforementioned SSR is lower than any of them would like so they occasionally had to share with the Army boys when they’re stateside.

            It’s humourous to see their faces when Rogers and Barnes finish their fight. They look whelmed with their eyes wide and jaws dropped. A few look to be trying to macho up, get the courage to approach the already mythical captain and his sergeant.

            From this distance he can see what actually stops them, the Howling Commandos themselves.

Denier and Jones move to block Rogers and Barnes—sitting on the sidelines, talking about something in low voices—from the soldiers, they’re talking in loud French, obnoxiously loud. Dum Dum and Falsworth decide to take up their own spar, a whole less impressive than Rogers and Barnes but a step or two above a normal soldier—they do need to keep up with Captain America after all. They’re making wide, sweeping moves to make anyone and everyone back off. Morita crouches next to the two super-soldiers (let’s face it, Barnes isn’t anything less at this point. It’s imperfect, but he matches up fairly, staggeringly well.) whispering something to them.

            Rogers lets out a snort before it turns into howling laughter that makes his whole body shake. Barnes stares at him, a smile twisting his lips, but there’s awe in his face.

            “I met Captain Rogers at Camp Lehigh,” Peggy says quietly. They’re the only ones on the bleachers, but there isn’t a wind to take their words in the opposite direction so they lower their tone to keep super-soldier hearing from doing what it does. “He could barely make it from the barracks to the track field without losing his breath.” She smiles, her eyes flitting from Barnes to Rogers, and back over again.

            Awe-inspiring indeed.

            “They want to promote them. Captain to Major. Sergeant to Second Lieutenant,” Howard replies. Peggy shoots him a look, unsurprised but still a little questioning. Rogers’ jump to Captain was unorthodox while Barnes’ climb to Sergeant was more natural. Turning Captain Rogers to Major Rogers isn’t much of a stretch, but jumping Sergeant Barnes to Second Lieutenant Barnes is a little much, but he does need to be a commissioned officer they want to get anything done. “He’ll keep the Captain America for publicity sake, of course.”

            She rolls her eyes. “Of course,” she murmurs.

            “Not for another week, though. They’ll get at least told tomorrow then a small ceremony.” No mention of Rogers or Barnes names—everything is just rumours and stories, a few soldiers recognizing them—but the promotions will be put in their file. They have to be. “After that we have no choice but for the HYDRA raids to start.”

            Peggy grimaces, but nods. For the past month the Howling Commandos have being raiding Nazi bases, not HYDRA. No one’s happy about it, but they had no choice. Rogers needed to be a field officer to be able to command his unit properly—Despite the fact that he’s been doing HYDRA related missions since pulled into the SSR, back then he was following orders (more or less), but now he would be giving orders in the field and needed the authority to do so.

            They all want to go after HYDRA—some more than others. But Howard has to agree with her grimace. Watching the men now, practically enjoying themselves, it’s a little hard to swallow that they’re to go up against a man who may be worse than Hitler himself.

            Rogers stands, hauling Barnes to his feet. He claps his friend on the back, laughing still. They all start ambling away from the field, jostling each other and joking around.

            “Peggy!” Rogers calls, waving to them. “Stark! Come on. Drinks on Dum Dum.”

            Dugan scowls, shoving his captain, but the man barely moves and just shoves him back, keeping his strength in check enough to just make the larger man stumble a bit.

            Howard gets up, holding a hand out for Peggy that she takes with a smile and a small, joking “what a gentleman.” He grins at her before they go arm in arm after the Commandos.

           

 

Steve’s too big and Bucky’s too small. He finally matches outside with his inside, but Bucky is the opposite. He no longer matches. They still have to squeeze on the cot together, though. His face is pressed against Steve’s chest, just barely able to breathe, and Steve’s arms are wrapped around his shoulders, hands coming up behind his head.

            For the most part it’s all quiet, only the faint sounds of the day outside the tent and the even fainter whisper of Steve turning a page tell him that this is all real. When it’s fake it’s quiet, like a film before talkies.

            Bucky is _trying_ to sleep, but it’s just not coming.

            “Stop thinking,” Steve says, there’s amusement in his voice mixing with concern. “That’ll probably help.”

            “Stop talking,” Bucky grumbles in return. “That’ll make you seem smarter.” Steve just chuckles and continues reading. He lets it be for a long minute until he sighs. “Whatcha reading?”

            “ _The Hobbit_.”

            “Again?”

            There’s that laugh again. “Yes, again,” he says. “Don’t pull that on me, though. How many times have you read _We_ or _Anthem_?”

            “Hey,” Bucky protests. “I’ll have you know Yevgeny Zamyatin is a _genius._ Rand is a little dry, but _Anthem_ is fantastic.”

            Steve snorts. “Zam-YAH- _teen_ ,” he corrects. “You’re saying ‘tin’ instead of ‘teen.’”

            “He’s my favourite author, not yours. I can pronounce his name however I want.” Bucky still hasn’t moved his face from Steve’s chest and, surprisingly enough, the banter is making him a mushy and comfortable.

            “Except you can’t,” Steve says, pitch dropping so his voice is low and soothing. “The whole point of names is so they’re pronounced a certain way to indicate that the person you’re talking about is, in fact, the person you’re talking about.”

            “You make no sense,” Bucky mumbles.

            Steve runs a hand through his hair and doesn’t answers, just scratches his nails on Bucky’s scalp. He resists the urge to purr like a cat, but obviously fails because Steve laughs again. Which, score for the traumatized soldier, Steve doesn’t laugh as often these days. Doesn’t really smile much either.

            They rarely get time to each other anymore, with the rest of the team around and the SSR breathing down their necks when they’re not on a mission. Don’t get him wrong, he loves the Howling Commandos (or, his favourite: Rogers’ Raiders. Either are better than The Five Pointed Stars, their official codename) but he misses the good old days when it was just him and Steve.

            He knows Steve doesn’t miss it, not really. Back then Bucky was his only friend, but he always wanted more. He’s such a tactile guy despite the fact he can come off fairly abrasive some times even though he’d rather not. He _knows_ Steve is loving his group. Morita, Falsworth, Dum Dum, Gabe, Dernier, Carter, Stark, and, hell, even Phillips.

            But, God, Bucky misses it.

            He feels more than hears Steve closing the book and letting it drop to the floor. He bits the inside of his cheek against a reprimand. The book was ratty when they found it and going through one raid accidently in Steve’s pocket gave it a little blood on the corner. It can’t really get much worse than that. Both his hands go back to Bucky, though, one hand still in his hair and the other on the back of his neck, threading his fingers through the short hairs there.

            Bucky can feel his chest rumbling as he murmurs something too quiet for him to hear, but slowly gets louder. He closes his eyes to listen.

            _”’—copying, word for word, the proclamation printed today in the One State Gazette: The building of the INTEGRAL will be completed in one hundred and twenty days from today. The great historic hour when the first Integral will soar into cosmic space is near at hand…’”_

            He sighs, smiling. “When did you memorize _We_?”

            “Training,” Steve answers, breaking off a bit. “There’s not much to do when they’re trying to figure out a system for a super-soldier. The early days were laughably easy.” He takes a breath and launches in right where he left off. “ _’A thousand years ago your heroic ancestors subdued the entire terrestrial globe to the power of the One State. Yours will be a still more glorious accomplishment: you will integrate the infinite equation of the universe with the aid of the fire-breathing, electric, glass INTERGRAL! You will—’”_

            He lets Steve’s voice fully lull him to sleep, chasing away the nightmares that had caused this cuddle-fest in the first place. Trying to ignore the twist in his chest even when his brain reminds him that this is still Steve, he’s just finally matching his body with his heart. But _‘laughably easy’_ isn’t easy to ignore.

            He ignores it for now, focusing on the words being said and being traced on his back, like Steve’s writing the book on his skin.

 

Gabe doesn’t really have high hopes for the unit. It’s a sad thought, but a realistic one. All but one of them had been POWs, held by _the_ most ruthless man in the world. Forget Adolf Hitler, the Red Skull is what nightmares are made off, he oozes darkness and insanity and he hasn’t even met the man—the devil—before. He _has_ met Arnim Zola, just once, briefly, and they didn’t even talk, but Gabe still felt a swift of uneasiness wash over him, knowing that Sergeant Barnes had been in his hands. A bad taste in his mouth that still lingers months later.

            So, yes, POWs being led by a man that starred in comic books Gabe read in his down time. No high hopes for that. He doesn’t understand why ‘Captain America’ seems to be a real person and he’s slightly annoyed that, out of everything they could’ve given them to entertain themselves, they give them those comic books. The man is nothing but stories.

            Despite these thoughts, when Captain Rogers came to them with the offer of going after HYDRA itself, he said yes. How else was he going to do it?

            Now, though, Gabe leans against the wooden support beam, listening to Captain Rogers give out his plan. It’s a good plan, solid, could be reliable. They’re not even going after a HYDRA base—the reason being a tight-lip secret only the higher ups are aware of—but Rogers is acting like this is the most important thing in the world. Here he thought the most important thing in the world was Barnes, his childhood friend, but he guesses he overestimated their friendship.

            “Buck, you’re with me,” Rogers says, clapping his hand lightly on his friend’s shoulder. “We’ll pick up a truck on our way in. Gabe, I would say you too. Your German’s better than his, but…” he trails off awkwardly.

            Gabe sighs, but grins at the awkwardness. “Don’t bother,” he replies. “I get it. I would like to keep my life, thank you.” The town they’re going through is more ‘shoot on sight, we’re Nazis damn it’ sort of people. Rogers and Barnes are going straight in as a distraction while the rest sneak behind the back to where the warehouse is.

            To be honest, he hadn’t been aware Rogers even knew German.

            They stop planning and turn to getting ready. Rogers and Barnes change to clothes pilfered a week ago, slipping into the roles they established between themselves, not really sharing the inside joke with the rest of them. Apparently they don’t need to know the details, just that they’ll get the Commandos in without a hassle.

            It’s disturbing to watch, actually. Gabe knows Barnes, how pragmatic and how _smart_ the man is despite he dropped out of high school—most people dropped out of high school, why would Barnes be any different? He’s heard the story about how his last night stateside was spent at the Stark Expo. It’s almost expected that he can slip into a character so well. But Rogers, he doesn’t seem like the type, but he switches from English to German so well that it occurs to Gabe that he doesn’t actually know Rogers—or Barnes for the matter—all that well.

            Rogers has all the presence of a spy or an agent. He’s like Agent Carter in the way they can slip into a role so different than themselves. Gabe’s seen three sides of Rogers now: Captain, ‘kid from Brooklyn,’ and now this. And he doesn’t think he likes it.

            Barnes laughs at something Rogers says then shoves his foot right in front of his friend when he tries to take a step. Rogers starts to fall, but plants his heel down and spins, catching Barnes in a loose chokehold. Barnes jabs him in the side with a finger and Rogers squirms away, shouting that what he did is completely unfair and Barnes shouting that he should come back he he’d show him unfair.

            All of this in German.

            Rogers throws a shoe at him and their fight is settled. The rest of the Commandos stare at them even though they don’t understand fully what they’re saying, but get the gist of it. Gabe sighs. He’ll hold onto his reservations for a little while longer, perhaps his opinion will change after this raid, or when they finally start going after HYDRA.

            Perhaps, perhaps.

 

It’s 1942, Captain America looks just like he does in his posters, and Peggy Carter hates him already. He doesn’t see her right away. She’s talking to Stark and he’s talking to Colonel Phillips. Captain America is wearing that idiotic red, white, and blue uniform—granted it looks a bit more military styled than the almost skin-tight one the character wears in the comic books and collectable cards, but it still looks stupid. His helmet is still on even indoors, covering the upper half of his face so she can’t get a good read on his expressions.

            They’re to be working out of the same office for the next few months. He’s taking a break from what ever it is he does over stateside and she is dreading every moment. Everything she knows about him indicates he has no field experience at all. And she’s pretty confident they’re going to be assigned missions together.

            It’ll be an experiment in her self-control. How long can she go without punching Golden Boy in the face or somewhere much _, much_ softer?

            She is aware she’s possibly being completely unreasonable and harsh, she barely—if at all—knows the guy. Except, on Captain America—that’s all he’s introduced by, and his files say nothing else—being led over by Colonel Phillips he greets her formally and eyes her longer than he really should. There’s a hint of recognition in there, but she can’t think of any moment where they could’ve met long enough to warrant such a look.

            She shakes his hand and turns heel, her back to him in a blatant show of disrespect. Phillips never said she had to like the man. The Captain sighs when she moves, but she ignores him to drag Stark away for some demonstrations on new tech he developed.

            Peggy is allowing herself to be a bit petty. And, yes, she is being a little petty. She is human after all. Give her a few weeks or so to get over the American Hero being shipped to London and she’ll be fine.

            It occurs to her—two weeks into Captain America’s rotation in London—that she’s never seen the man outside the offices. She’s been on one mission since and she knows he’s been on three (one of them a week long, two of them condensed into the second week). Yet, when they’re both in office and they’re both done for the day, he melts into the depths of the SSR—probably to pester Stark about something—and she doesn’t see him arriving in the mornings.

            Strange, based on the look he gave her when they first met, she was expecting to see more of him.

            The most disconcerting part is the ‘never leaving the offices’ thing. She’s not worried, Peggy doesn’t worry about the social lives of ladder climbing Boy Scouts—she’s heard more than several officers refer to Captain America as such and it fits in a way.

            Except she does—worry, that is.

            There are men out there who need any sort of companionship to deal with what they do on a daily bases. There are men out there that, without that companionship, they snap and they end up turning against the very people they swore to protect. As much as she dislikes the man, she feels a deep twist of disgust at the thought of _Captain America_ turning out such away.

Which is why, when she hears Captain America has come back from another mission; she invites him out for some drinks and dancing.

He eyes her with surprise and wariness, the surprise she doesn’t mind, but she would rather have the unreasonable recognition than wariness. It strikes her then that she might be more than a little harsh to him over the weeks.

“Come on, Captain,” she says casually, not outright pleading and making it seem she just thought of this instead of sitting on it for a few days now. “Just one night on the town. It’ll be fun. Lord knows you need to have a little fun in your life.”

He actually chuckles at that, the dark look in his eyes lighting. “Alright, Agent Carter. You’ve convinced me. I’ll meet you out tonight.”

She grins. It took nothing to convince him, cementing the idea that even Captain America can’t be the perfect soldier all the time. Especially since she’s almost certain he’s not technically allowed to leave the SSR premises, but he’s leaving anyway.

Peggy doesn’t see him at first when she enters the pub. It’s jam packed, but a path opens in front of her like it always does when she wears this particular dress. She scans the crowd as she makes her way to the bar, but spots not even a hair. It occurs to her that she doesn’t know what the man looks like without his Captain America costume…uniform?

Her eyes settle on a blonde hair, blue eyed man who seems to make himself blend in with the rest of the crowd, it makes her think the only reason she can see him is because he wants her too. He stands when he spots her, eyes roaming over her appreciating. She braces herself for some idiotic remark, but he just sticks out his hand.

“We’ve never been properly introduced,” he says. “Sorry about that. I’m Steve Rogers. We knew each other back at Camp Lehigh?”

Peggy lets out an un-lady like snort and shakes his hand. “Jesus, Rogers,” she says. “What are the odds? What the hell did they do to you?”

He grins, rubbing the back of his neck—and there’s the Steve Rogers she remembers. It’s amazing how different Captain America and Steve Rogers are once you realise they’re the same person. “Project: Rebirth ended up doing a lot more than expected.”

“I’ll say, Captain.” This time she lets her eyes roam over his body, making the tips of his ears turn red and his cheeks pink. “I’ll also say that you’re breaking a million rules right now, but I don’t seem to mind.”

“Figured you wouldn’t,” he replies. He gestures over to the table he’s at and pulls out a chair for her. “So how ‘bout that little bit of fun, Agent Carter?”

 

            **v.**

Rogers is two bites into his apple when he looks up and squints at Colonel Phillips and Agent Carter speaking in the shadows. Falsworth raises an eyebrow, grinning. That’s the look he gets when he’s drawing from something he sees. When he’s drawing something in his head he barely looks up, even when Barnes is standing right in front of him and being deliberately annoying.

            “Think she’s shooting him?” Dum Dum asks, probably louder than he should.

            Morita raises an eyebrow at him. “Is who shooting who? I see no shooting around here.”

            Dum Dum gestures to Rogers’ drawing. “Agent Carter, you think she’s shooting the Colonel?”

            Falsworth laughs. “He wouldn’t draw her simply shooting him,” he replies. “Probably knocking him straight in the jaw and jabbing her heel into his foot. That’s the kind of woman Rogers likes.”

            “Violence and gorgeous looks,” Barnes says, snorting. “Hey, Captain America!”

            Rogers dutifully ignores him. They’ve been trying for an hour now trying to get him to automatically react to being called ‘Captain America,’ the man is too damn engrossed in his work, and pointedly ignoring them. He can tell he’s purposely ignoring because when Rogers finishes his apple he tosses the steam and a little bit at Barnes’ head, aiming with too much accuracy to pull off casual.

            “Major Rogers.”

            His head jerks up and he jumps to his feet, saluting the unfamiliar Major General that’s made his way to their unit. Falsworth frowns, not liking the look of this man—and by the scowl on Barnes’ face, he doesn’t either. The Major General quickly salutes back, a grin quirking his lips.

            “General Hammond,” Rogers replies. “Fancy seeing you around here.”

            “I’ll say,” the Major General says. He pulls out a pack of smokes and knocks it on the heel of his palm, shaking one out and offering it to Rogers. When he politely refuses, General Hammond shrugs and sticks the cig between his lips, lighting it with a flick. Falsworth didn’t even see him take out a Zippo. “We’ve gotta have a chat, Major Rogers.”

            Rogers huffs. “Maybe, but I ain’t having it here. Come on, the Colonel’s tent’s empty right now,” he says, jerking his head to where Colonel Phillips and Agent Carter are done talking and are staring at Major General Hammond.

            They walk away without word to them, but Falsworth hears a faint: “Why are you smoking? It does shit for you.” And the Major General laughing loudly, swinging an arm over Rogers’ shoulders.

            There’s a brief moment of silence before Barnes goes, “What the fuck was that? _Who_ the fuck was that?”

            “Major General Hammond,” Morita puts out helpfully, earning a head swipe from Dernier.

            “I’ve heard of him,” Gabe offers. “They call him the Torch. Don’t know why, though.”

            “Probably the same reason they call us the Five Pointed Stars,” Dum Dum says. He traces a star over his chest even though the stenciled wing on the side of Roger’s helmet and stitched to all their shoulders is actually the identifying mark for their unit. “To sound fancy.”

            “How do they know each other?” Barnes insists. “And what’s wrong with him? Made the hair on the back of my neck stand up, something’s off about him.”

            No one has an answer to that. He made them all uncomfortable, except, apparently, Rogers, but Rogers is weird anyway so it’s not that much of a surprise.

            Agent Carter ambles over, looking as gorgeous as ever. She’s tossing an apple from hand to hand. “They know each other from a previous mission Captain America did,” she says. “They met on the road. Chances are General Hammond has another mission for him.” Her lips twist and an expression of disgust flitters across her face for the briefest of seconds. “Your clearance levels aren’t high enough for the types of missions General Hammond has proceedings over.”

            Barnes sneers his displeasure, eyes still riveted on the tent flap Rogers disappeared behind. “Something’s off about him.”

            Carter nods. “I’m not denying that. But some things go beyond you all, even if you are the Five Pointed Stars. Rogers might be biting off more than he can chew.”

            “He seems to know a great deal about this Major General,” Morita points out. “I have no doubts Rogers knows exactly what he’s getting into.”

            “You’re just as dumb as him if you think that,” Barnes says, shaking his head and snorting. “Steve never knows what he’s doing.”

 

There’s a day when only part of the Howling Commandos come back. Barnes, Morita, and Falsworth. The Englishman is between the two, injured and barely conscious. Morita is limping and swearing viciously in Japanese, a few soldiers they pass shy away nervously until they see the stitched wing on his shoulder that deems him one of Captain America’s. Barnes looks half dead, eyes dull and dark blood staining the side of his head.

            They patch up his head and the dull look fades away, death enters his eyes instead. He looks ready to kill now, ice glinting in his glare.

            “We’re getting him back,” Barnes hisses. “And if try to stop me I’m gonna go anyway.”

Morita, sitting next to him, nods in agreement. “He’s _our_ Major,” he says. Then a smile curves in the normally calm man’s face, it promises a slow death to the HYDRA agents who took Captain America from his Raiders. “And they’re our _friends._ ”

Colonel Phillips sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. He looks older than he did when he took base command of the Howling Commandoes. “There are only three…” He trails off, glances at Peggy, and amends with: “There’s only four of you. I’m not going to deny your rescue mission for Rogers and the rest of the men, but I cannot allow four of you to go if Barnes is without Rogers—I’m not stupid. I’m sending more soldiers with you.”

Barnes sneers. “Fuck that shit.”

Phillips glares at him, but that’s not enough. If Steve hadn’t personally chosen his team so long ago, half (or all, really) would’ve been kicked out for insubordination a long, long time ago. Hell, even Steve would.

“I’ll go with them, Phillips,” a voice says from the entrance of he medical tent. Peggy turns around and there is Major General Jim ‘the Torch’ Hammond standing there, an easy yet dangerous smile on his face. “Five against Phineas Horton? Sounds winnable to me.”

Barnes lunges for him, but Morita holds him back, Falsworth still a little slow on the uptake. “You did this to him. This was that damn mission you pulled him over to talk about. If you think for a fucking second I’m gonna let you come with us, you’ve got another think coming, bastard.”

Hammond just smiles lazily. “What makes you think that?” he asks. He taps out a cigarette and lights it quick as you like with his Zippo, Peggy doesn’t remember seeing him take the lighter out. “And what makes you think I can give you the information you so clearly desire?”

“Fuck you,” Barnes spits.

The Major General sighs. “Professor Phineas Horton is a former American scientist-cum-professor who created Horton Cells.” He caves easier than Peggy thought he would, by the looks on Barnes’ face he’s just as surprised.

“They’re replicas of human cells,” he continues, “but made of plastic and carbon polymers. They were mostly unsuccessful. His plan for them was to generate and store power to use off the grid and to use them to help people permanently injured lead to recovery. Instead, they led to tiny, but powerful bombs because, when exposed to oxygen, they burst into flames. The project was shutdown and Horton disappeared.” He runs a hand through his blonde hair. “Next we hear of him overseas, working for HYDRA and directly under Arnim Zola, who we all know works for.

“I was hoping Steve could figure out what exactly they’re working on, but considering he’s in charge of the Five Pointed Stars he couldn’t head out like on a normal mission, so you got caught up in all of this. You technically weren’t supposed to be even on this mission.” There’s a look on his face that tells her exactly what he’s thinking.

“You think it’s their fault Major Rogers was captured,” Peggy says. “That if he was alone he could’ve gotten the information and out before being seen. You’re placing the blame on all of them instead of yourself for sending Rogers on this mission instead of going yourself or sending some of the more covert agents.”

“Like you, Agent Carter?” He shoots at her.

She stands tall. “Yes, like me. Steve’s priority is to _take down_ HYDRA bases, not gather information. And that has his been his priority since the Liberation. He has no other mission, personal or official, except that, so I don’t know what you were expecting.”

Hammond sighs again. “I don’t either. I was hoping Captain America would pull off another one of his miracle missions, but I guess not.”

Barnes jumps to his feet and storms out of the tent, swearing a blue streak. Morita looks like he’s going to follow, but then he deliberately sits back down and turns his full, disapproving attention on General Hammond.

“You realise he’s going whether he get’s approval or not? By himself, with his team, it doesn’t matter,” Morita says. “Just as long as he gets Major Rogers back.”

Hammond pins him with a glare. “I am aware of that. I’m not stopping you so all this hostility is for nothing. Barnes is pissed because he’s now aware of the missions Steve pulled back when he was just a captain. Misplaced anger if you ask me.” He ignores the glares even Peggy and a few nurses are sending him, and turns back to Phillips. “Five against HYDRA, what do you so Chester?”

The man sighs. “I obviously have no choice in the matter,” he mutters. Peggy has to resist a smirk.

Hammond nods. “Inform Barnes,” he says to no one directly, but Peggy has a feeling she’s going to be the one to find him. “We leave tomorrow morning. The sooner the better.”

 

“Steve, what are you doing?” Peggy asks, tired and exasperated. They just got back from a mission only this morning. Hell, she’s still packed, her bag tucked under her cot in her tent, and it seems only Steve was only half way through his unpacking before he started shoving everything back in. “Steve?” she prompts.

            He falters in his quick movements, his shoulders straighten then hunch, and then he goes back to his packing, faster than ever. “Just got word that the 107th has been captured,” he says with forced lightness. “HYRDA.”

            “We don’t know if it was HYRDA for sure,” Peggy reminds him. Everything wasn’t always HYDRA, they’ve run into one or two situations where, for the briefest second, she wonders if HYDRA truly is the worse. There are things they know that the public doesn’t and it makes her sick. ”You can’t go out with only half a thought.”

            “Yes I can,” Steve replies. “It wouldn’t be the first time.” There’s the ghost of a smirk on his lips before it twists back into an ugly frown. “Report me to our superiors if you really think like that, but nothing you say will stop me.”

            After a long pause she sighs. “Let me get my bag.” Steve gives her a grateful look and doesn’t even bother trying to convince her to stay. “Howard would probably be willing to take his new plane for a fly.” She levels him with a stern look. “If you leave without either of us you’ll—.”

            “I know, I know,” he says with a grin.

            Peggy nods and turns heel, rushing out the room to find Howard. She’s fairly confident that Steve won’t leave without them, but she doesn’t want to leave him alone longer than necessary. After running missions with him for the past few weeks she’s fully aware of how much baggage he takes on, whether it’s guilt that he fully deserves to feel or guilt about something he has no influence in, he’ll feel it. This is one of those times where he’ll feel guilt when he shouldn’t and she doesn’t want to leave him alone for too long.

            Howard is in his own tent—status dictates it—and reading over a requisition form probably when she rushes in. “Ah, Peggy. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

            “The 107th has been captured,” Peggy says quickly. She can tell he get’s the significance of that when his eyes widen and he starts shoving his papers in a folder. “I know you’ve been working on a stealth plane. The HYDRA base is in Austria.”

            “Then what are we waiting for?” Howard is already rushing past her. She chases after him. “Where’s Steve?”

            “In his quarters last I saw. I doubt he’s still there.”

            He nods. “I’ll start up the plane, go get him and meet me in the hanger.”

            Peggy breaks away from him and heads back to Steve’s quarters after grabbing her bag from her tent. She bursts through the opening and skids to a stop, eyes wide, when she sees Colonel Phillips in the room with Steve staring him down.

            “Steve. Sir,” she says, almost spluttering before she composes herself.

            “Agent Carter,” Phillips says with a small nod of his chin, but he doesn’t take his eyes off Steve. “I’m going to pretend this never happened—you practically going UA. Because we’re going to mark this as a mission carried out by you two.” This time he glances at Peggy. “And I’m assuming Stark too. The work you’ve done already and because I know you and Barnes were close, those are the only reasons I’m not reporting you for even thinking of going. Are we clear? Something like this again and I’m not afraid to write you up.”

            “Yes, sir,” Steve says.

            Phillips nods once then disappears out of the tent. Peggy exchanges a look with Steve that just reeks of surprised amusement.

            “Not what I expected,” he says. “But I’m not complaining.” He shoulders his bag and grabs his shield. (It tickles her pink to this day that he has a bloody shield as his primary weapon in the age of guns and unknown power sources.)

            He marches ahead of her and she falls to his side, her own bag banging against her shin. She hoists it to cradle in her arm when Howard comes in view.

            “We clear to fly?” Howard calls.

            Steve raises a hand and waves it once before giving a thumb up. Howard grins and ducks back into his little project.

            “Steve,” Peggy says. He stops and turns to her, eyebrow raised. She raises one back. “I’ve got your back, but you need to be careful. We don’t know what’s going on. Regiments disappear all the time, but this is the first time one’s disappeared so close to an Allied base.”

            He clasps her shoulder with a big hand, squeezing gently. “I know,” he says softly. “Trust me, I know.”

           

            **viii.**

Jim Hammond has no idea how he’s come to this point. He is not a spy, he is a solider. But with these strange times getting stranger (which is saying something considering how strange his life has been since before this point) they’ve had to take on roles they wouldn’t normally.

            Right now he’s cold and he’s hungry, and he’s soaked to the bone. The compound down below him is quiet and he would think abandoned if not for the agents he saw walking into it a few hours ago.

               “ _Du siehst aus wie ein trauriger, ertrunkene maus_ ,” a crisp voice says, sounding young, amused, and perfectly German.

            Jim whirls around, gun ready, and comes face to face with a man that should be on the Führer’s propaganda posters, perhaps standing right below him (and off to the side, of course) on the cover of Time magazine for ‘Man of the Year.’ This man is the perfect Aryan Hitler never shut up about, Jim wonders if the bastard is aware he’s got the ‘perfect’ man working for him down in the dumps.

            “What’s it to you?” Jim says, stubbornly sticking to English.

            The man grins, suddenly boyish instead of imposing. Jim’s seen a lot of action in war and this boy is at least a decade younger than him, yet the look in his eyes makes him actually want to back away.

            “ _Herr_ Hammond _? Die Feuer_?” The man asks, still in nerve-wracking German.

            “Yes,” he says eventually.

            “Steve Rogers,” the man says, switching suddenly to English. He has no regional accent, but it’s definitely American. “Your…back up, per se.”

            Jim eyes him. “You? You’re my back up? Just you?”

            “I know, I’m intimidating. You get use to it.” Rogers gives him a toothy grin that makes Jim think of wolves in winter. He may be called the Torch, but there’s something else about this guy. “I’m hoping to see you in action, General Hammond. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

            “Interesting,” Jim says. “Because I’ve never heard of you. What’s a man like you doing out here?” He can’t tell what the man’s rank is with that _Schutzstaffel_ uniform on. The design and insignias say _Hauptsturmführer_ , but that’s the most common _Schutzstaffel_ rank out there. “You don’t look like a soldier.”

            Rogers gestures to his uniform. “You’ll find that I do. You wouldn’t believe the number of checkpoints I got through because of this. My German ain’t too bad either.”

            Jim eyes him again. “I’m sure.” He just looks so _young._

“You’re actually the lead for this,” Rogers says. “I’m your back up, but I’m suppose to do whatever you want.” He doesn’t look too happy about that. “What will it be?”

            He doesn’t really have a plan except the part where they grab the files he came here for. It’ll be tricky because it’s still raining cats and dogs, walking in a base soaked to the bone wouldn’t do them much good. He could just set fire to the whole damn thing, but, well, paper doesn’t mesh will with flames.

            “We could set fire to the north side of the building,” Rogers offers. “Set me up on the south where the labs are. If we get you close enough to a storage area you might find something flammable to make explode for a bigger distraction.”

            “And what the hell am I going to use to set things up?” Jim demands, slightly sweating. “Wet matches don’t work.” It’s the one thing he’s insecure about, something that could be discovered and have him on a table, splayed out like a biology frog. It doesn’t hurt that Rogers managed to line up the same plan he thought of, is the man a mind reader?

            Rogers shrugs. “There’s a reason you’re called the Torch,” he answers. Oh, right. God, he feels so young right now, like they’ve switched ages. “I figured you’re proficient with the big boom stuff.” He grins when Jim barks out a laugh.

            “All right,” he says, sounding a little strangled to his own years. His nickname, his rank, they’re all still so new. “You’ve got me. You hanging around outside or should I meet you in?”

            He waves a hand. “I’ll be inside, enjoying the nice heating they’ve got in there. I’m sure it’s going to be jealous in a little bit.” He claps Jim on the shoulder as he passes. “Meet you there.”

Then he strides off, heading down hill before turning off to the road. There’s a checkpoint there, a gate with two men guarding it. Without even being able to see their faces Jim bets they’re annoyed and tired, which will either help Rogers or hinder him. Rogers stops at the gate, shows them something, and speaks a few words, then strolls right under the lifting gate.

Jim shakes his head, smiling ruefully. He pushes up the arm of his left sleeve and rolls his shoulder forward then back. There should be a chill, but he can’t feel anything but heat. His arm burns, travelling up his arm to his shoulder, across his lungs, and down his left side. Got to love science some times, it’s a miracle he manages to contain it the best he does.

Normally he likes to punch walls and be dramatic, but this time he just sets his palm against the wall and lets it melt slowly and surely. ‘lo and behold, he’s granted entrance to a supply closet full of bottles. Bottles means chemicals, chemicals mean explosions. He grabs one, checks the ingredients, and grins.

Open it, add a piece of cloth, and start a fire at the edge. He inches open the door to come face to face with a laundry room. What are the odds? (It occurs to him that maybe Rogers knew where everything is already?) He tosses the bottle into one of the laundry carts and grabs another. This room is going to go up in smoke when he’s done with it.

            Not a minute out of the room does he feel a rush of heat against his back. It burns a little on his neck, but his soaked clothes protect him rather well. Alarms blare and people start running. Jim sticks to the shadows and is thankful of the panic to keep people from looking.

            He makes it to the north side of the building, mostly empty now minus one person reading over files. He’s tall and blonde, hunched over the short desk. The man is obviously in too much of a hurry to sit down. It could be either Rogers or some HYDRA agent.

            Turns out to be Rogers when he turns around and holds out a file. “I think this might be important to you.”

            Jim gives him a look that tells the blonde man he is not amused. “What was the point of me doing that id you managed to get in here and start reading files without a fuss?”

            Rogers grins slightly, just the twitch of the corner of his lip, and doesn’t answer, just holds the file toward him a little more.

            He takes it and flips it open. Phineas Horton stares at him, glasses and everything, with the added bonus of a HYDRA science division uniform on. “Fuck me.”

            “I was just thinking that,” Rogers says. “I know he did work…for you.” He tactilely works around the word he actually wants to use. That’s the key that he fucking _knows._ “I was hoping he just got killed, but he really did defect.”

            “What’s it to you?” Jim asks, suddenly wanting to know what the hell this man is doing here. He doesn’t act like a soldier; he acts like a brat of a spy.

            “My name is Steve Rogers,” he says. “I work for the SSR.” He takes a deep breath and rolls his eyes. “I’m also known as Captain America, unfortunately.”

            Jim’s jaw drops, his eyes widen. If anyone is more known than the Torch for stupid shit that gets the job done it’s Captain America. “Bulls _hit_.”

            Steve’s startled laugh it worth it the slight embarrassment he causes himself.

 

Steve sits on the cot, staring blankly ahead of him and not even wincing when his wounds are cleaned. There’s more blood than there should be considering his injuries and that makes Howard’s stomach roll. The implications of that are not good, the entire opposite of good. Barnes is in the room with him, kneeling down at Steve’s feet and talking quietly to him. His expression is dark and grim, angry to the point of rage.

Peggy and Phillips stand with him. One would think Rogers’ Raiders would be here too, but the Major isn’t the only one who’s injured, he’s just worst off. Barnes all but ordered them to stay together in the next room over when he realizes Rogers isn’t going to speak.

            “I’m still not sure what Red Skull wanted him for,” Howard says out loud. “The prevailing theory before this was that the Red Skull wanted him dead like the rest of us, probably seeing him as competition, but this… This is different. They never told him they had Captain America.” He waves his hand towards the string less puppet that use to be Major Rogers and hopefully will be again. “They had him for a week and they never told their leader they had the only other true super-soldier in the world.”

            Peggy opens her mouth to say something, something snappish and negative if the pinch in her brow means anything. She has every right to be upset, she is the one who found Steve stumbling down a hallway mindlessly after managing to kill his guard and escape the his prison somehow. They may never get the full story.

            She never gets to say a word because Barnes starts shouting at a nurse.

Steve is shaking, head bowed and shoulders curved, his hands are fisting the loose fabrics of his trousers. The nurses back away, one looking terrified, but the rest more concerned than anything else.

Barnes pulls his friend down until Steve’s face is tucked in the crook of his neck, the position looks unbelievably uncomfortable but it seems to calm him down as the shaking stops. There’s a building sized sigh of relief until he starts shaking again.

Howard sighs again, until Barnes’ expression goes from soothing to alarmed and freaked out. That’s when he realises Steve isn’t just shaking, he’s convulsing. His whole body jerking out of his control. The strength of his shaking it too much for even Barnes, but before he can get out of the way an uncontrolled arm smacks out, hitting him across the cheek.

It’s a credit either to the fear for his friend or the serum running through his own veins that Barnes doesn’t immediately knocked out for the count. He stumbles back a little, but goes right back to trying to comfort his friend.

There’s a moment of calm when the convulsions stop, the only sound is Steve’s harsh breathing. He’s curled over himself, holding his right wrist tightly, hand pulled into a fist. His eyes are closed, face pale.

“Steve,” Barnes says quietly, inching closer. He reaches out slowly. “Steve?” He makes the slightest contact with his shoulder.

“No!” Steve flails, pushing Barnes back. He jerks backwards, tumbles off the cot, and curls into a ball on the floor, arms pulled over his head. “No. No. No. Stop. Please,” he pleads. “ _Please.”_

He feels Peggy choke next to him, hand going to her mouth to partially hide her horror. Phillips mutters, “God damn it” under his breath and turns away. Howard feels bile rise in his throat at the sight of _Captain fucking America_ begging like a broken child.

Barnes backs away. “Steve,” he tries again. “It’s me. It’s Bucky. C’mon. You know me. I’m not going to hurt you.”

“Please, stop,” Steve moans.

He’s not saying his name, rank, and number. Either he’s not back in that room or he is, they were never asking for information. Howard can only really think they were experimenting on him. He can’t know for sure, of course, but…this makes sense.

“I’m not doing anything,” Barnes says softly. “You’re safe now, Steve.” He touches Steve’s wrists, only touches, doesn’t grip. “Steve, it’s me.”

“I’m sorry,” Steve moans. “Bucky.” He finally reaches for him. “Bucky, I’m sorry.”

Barnes gathers him in his arms, not even paying attention to their audience. “You have nothing to be sorry for, punk,” he says quietly. Steve buries his face in the crook of his neck, clinging to him desperately, and starts sobbing, shoulder shaking. “It’s okay. It’s all right.”

He coaxes Steve back on to the cot, curling around him even though the space is way too small for the both of them. “Stop, stop, stop,” Steve moans then, “Bucky.”

“Look at me, Steve.” The blonde’s head lolls, his blank gaze seeing nothing. “Steve. _Steve_. Come on.” He glances up at his audience finally. “I don’t know what to do.”

By the awkward silence that follows, from the doctors and nurses to the three of them, tells the man they don’t know what to do either.

This, this is unprecedented. Unknown.

 

            Peggy feels numb when she walks into the pub. People of all kinds are cheering and shouting, sharing drinks and sharing kisses, for once not a matter of who or what they are but only that they won, they’re safe. The only problem, she sees, is that they don’t know what they’re safe from or even why they’re safe. The Nazis and their allies, yes, but HYDRA went beyond them and there’s a nagging feeling that even with Schmidt dead this is not the end.

            And no one will ever know who saved them, two soldiers who gave their all at the cost of themselves.

            Dum Dum, Gabe, Dernier, Falsworth, and Morita clink glasses, standing around a little table in the corner. They’re the most somber group in here, their salutes and prayers silent in the growing dim. There shoulder be more people, friends to honour friends, but it’s only the five of them—six when she finally makes her way over.

            They salute again, this time she has her own glass of beer. Completely un-lady like, and she’d rather have something stronger, but she ignores the want and downs the alcohol. Dum Dum gives her half a smile when she taps the glass back down on the table.

            “The SSR is evolving,” she says. Four simple words draw the boys’ attention straight to her and she squares her shoulders. “’Cut off one head, two more will take its place.’ We can’t believe that HYDRA is dead; all we did was cut off the head. We’re not sure what’s going to happen now, but we want to be prepared. There’s positions open for all of you, even if you don’t take them now they’re a standing invitation.”

            “Who’s involved?” Gabe asks.

            “So far me, Stark, and Phillips,” she admits. “Not a large number, but we’ll make it work.”

            “Count me in,” Dum Dum says, swallowing the last of his beer.

            Gabe nods. “Me too.”

            The rest of the men voice their agreements, making a warmth of pride swell in her chest. Steve would be just as proud. Especially for those who were doubtful any of this would work.

            “We do we start?”

            “Right now.”

           

 

Jim Hammond finds the papers in 1951; they’re packed up with most of Captain America’s files. There’s no name other than Captain America, giving no indication who the person was behind the red, white, and blue. (All that’s left are the propaganda comics and trading cards for the public.) The papers are old, yellowing, and in the farthest closest of the improving SSR (being renamed SHIELD, he deems it rather appropriate considering who the rename is for).

            The language is German and it hasn’t been translated yet like most files commandeered during the war. There’s a date written on it, 29.01.44. He recognizes the handwriting; he sees it ever day on paperwork that crosses his desk. January 29th is the same day Steve Rogers was liberated from the HYDRA base that had been experimenting on him.

            “Jim! Are you coming back up?” Maria calls. He hears Howard start to say something, but Maria shushes him. “Peggy said you were just grabbing the Matthews file. What’s taking so long?”

            He snorts. “Maybe if we fixed the lighting down here it’ll be easier to see things,” he yells back before turning back to the file.

            Phineas Horton’s name is clear as the supervising scientist. He knows what that sort of formatting looks like; he’s seen it on his own files. It makes him sick to think about the man who helped him turning on his country, men, and Steve Rogers.

            The ink is faded in some places, not blacked out since it seems no one has touched it since 1944. But he makes out the notes from two weeks worth of experimentation and torture, bullet points when some mention contacting Red Skull.

            He spots two words at the bottom of the first page that turns into the header for each page after. Jim snaps the folder shut, heart beating. It takes only a few seconds to find the Matthews file and he’s bringing both files up the stairs with him. This old Lehigh bunker is getting old, they may need to upgrade soon.

            The file box on Captain America gets left behind in the corner.

            Howard gives him a knowing look when he comes back up. Jim shoves the file in Maria’s hands, subtly tucking the HYDRA file into his coat. She smirks at him and turns heel, heading to where Peggy is waiting at the head desk.

Gabe Jones stares at him. “You didn’t. Come on, Hammond.”

Jim rolls his eyes. “I thought Howard might be interested in it. He still has the Search going, right?” The mood sobers a little. He holds the file out. “Steve might have survived.”

Howard takes it. “I’ve already read this,” he says.

“Did you?” He counters. “It’s a little tough to get through, considering what happened to him. Just because you dated it doesn’t mean you read it. I’d give it a glance through if I were you.”

The Stark hesitates before opening it. He takes a deep breath and glances down. Jim reaches over and flips the page for him. He can tell when Howard spots the keywords.

_Project Lazarus._


End file.
